


ah, the scent of fresh pine needles

by valety



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: AU - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Fluff, Holidays, Other, POV Second Person, Post-Pacifist Route
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-12 00:24:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9047507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valety/pseuds/valety
Summary: “Awful teens tormented a local monster by decorating its tree-like horns. So we started giving that monster presents to make it feel better. Now it’s a tradition to put presents underneath a decorated tree.” Asriel versus holiday gift exchanges.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been out of commission for a while because of school stuff, so as an apology, here is something absolutely pointless and hopefully a little bit cute that I wrote in a day and a half or so \o/
> 
> warnings for very brief references to intrusive thoughts and ptsd

Back when you were just a kid and still wore striped shirts, only your parents put presents underneath the decorated tree for Gyftrot Month. Now that you’re technically a teen, it’s your job to put presents underneath the tree as well, seeing as how it was unruly teens who tormented poor Gyftrot in the first place.

It’s something you’ve been looking forward to for a while. You like the thought of being able to make Chara smile with a well-chosen gift. And you’re parents too, you guess. Still, you’re unsure at first if that’s something that you’ll still be doing, now that monsters are living on the surface and all. Surrounded on all sides by human holidays, it feels almost intrusive for monsters to carry on with their own traditions, now that there's no longer technically a need for them. But then it starts to snow, marking the beginning of the season, and you can’t put off your decision any longer.

You ask Chara if they’d rather celebrate a human holiday this year, and their red eyes flash and they say, “You’ll pry Gyftrot Month from my cold, dead hands.”

“Oh,” you say, relieved. “Well. All right then.”

And you guess that settles that.

Gifts for your parents are easy, because you’re their kid, meaning they’ll like anything you do. You could probably get away with giving them one of your drawings, provided it was framed to make it fancy, even if it took you less than five minutes to actually make it. You’re not _that_ lazy, though, so instead you get your father a new teapot that you paint with yellow flowers and your mother an apron with a picture of a happy snail on it.

You’re smiling yourself as you put them underneath the tree. There’s something pretty satisfying about seeing your own presents join the pile for once. There’s something even more satisfying about having a real, fresh-smelling pine tree to do it with and open sky to do it under, even if that wasn’t part of the original Gyftrot story. You’ll have to remember to go outside every day and clear the snow off, so that you’ll always be able to see your own additions to the pile.

A gift for Frisk is easy, too, if only because their tastes are so simple. They like bright things, soft things, pretty things. More than that, they like _making_ pretty things. You fill a box with spools and spools of rainbow-coloured ribbon, as well as buttons and string and coloured paper, then place that underneath the tree as well. Maybe someone else would find it strange to gift somebody with little more than craft supplies, but the ripple of excitement that you feel as you return to the house tells you you chose wisely.

A gift for Chara is a little trickier. It’s not that you don’t know what they like. In fact, you know that almost better than you know what _you_ like. Books, knitting, chocolate, tea—any of those likely would have made for a suitable gift, but as it’s your first time giving them a present for a holiday that’s not their birthday, you want it to be _perfect,_ not just suitable. Although you’ll settle for “something that they really like.”

One day, not long after Gyftrot Month begins, you’re sitting at the desk in your bedroom, rubbing your forehead with a sigh as you stare down at the list of gift ideas that you’ve written.

  * rare tea??? 
  * signed first edition book!!!! even rarer than the tea
  * (indecipherable scribbles)
  * (in Frisk's handwriting) lizards



You pick up your pencil to add _KNITTING NEEDLES SHAPED LIKE KNIVES_ to the list, but before you can do so, you hear the creak of a bedroom door being slowly pushed open. You pretend to be so engrossed in list-making that you don’t notice as Chara slips inside, but the façade only lasts until they say, “Lift your arms up, please.”

“What are you doing?” you ask as you promptly lift your arms. They slip a measuring tape around your chest, giving a long, low whistle before removing it.

“Nothing,” they answer cheerfully. “Keep your arms extended.”

“Nothing.” you repeat. “This doesn’t _seem_ like nothing.”

“I just wanted to know how big you are now. You’ve been growing an awful lot lately.”

“I’m 5’4” now,” you say immediately. You do so with only the slightest hint of pride. To be prideful would be to be unruly, and teens like you need to be careful not to be unruly during Gyftrot Month. If you are, then Gyftrot will become annoyed and need to take away the presents sitting underneath the decorated tree in order to cheer itself up.

Chara gives another long, low whistle. _“Very_ impressive,” they say as they measure your arm. “By the way, your growth has been fairly steady, right? About half an inch a month, give or take a bit? One could probably estimate your growth for the next few years fairly accurately?”

“Um. I guess so?”

“Wonderful!” The tape measure snaps back into place. When you turn around to look at Chara, feeling puzzled, they’re beaming, cheeks flushed with apparent pleasure. “That’s all I need from you. Goodbye.”

They pat you on the head, then prance out of the room, leaving you to stare after their retreating back and wonder who they think they’re fooling.  

Still, had it not been for that incident, you likely wouldn’t have thought much about how quickly Chara’s bamboo needles fly later that evening. You’re used to the sight of them hunched over by the fire, surrounded on all sides by baskets of wool, eyes blazing and needles smoking as they work. It’s practically been their natural state ever since the two of you were eleven and your mother first taught them how to purl a stitch.

Even so, they work that evening with a fervor that you’ve never seen before, making it very, very hard for you to look away. The sheer energy with which Chara approaches the tasks they’ve put their mind to has always been somewhat mesmerizing to you, although this time, the fact that the dark blue wool they’re working with might very possibly be going towards a gift for you admittedly adds considerably to its allure.

Fortunately, you don’t have to try and hide your staring for very long. Shortly after you first settle down on the sofa, pretending that you’re only there to read, Chara comes and joins you, leaning heavily against your side without so much as looking to you for permission.

“Hello,” you say after only a minute or so of somewhat awkward silence.

“Mm,” Chara grunts. Then, tipping back their head to meet your eyes from below: “Do you mind?”

“No,” you confess, and you give yourself permission to lean back, then, resting your head against theirs as they work so that you can better see the way their needles flash.

Something to do with knitting, you think as the finished pieces of the sweater—what else could it _be?_ _—_ gradually become strewn about the living room, one after another. They like knitting well enough, so they’d probably appreciate something related to that, but just needles or wool wouldn’t be particularly interesting. So…

 _Something that you’ve made yourself_ feels like the right answer, actually. After all, they’re making something for _you._ But what can you even make? You draw pictures for Chara constantly, and you don’t know how to sew or knit or crochet, although something you’ve knitted yourself would probably amuse them.

(You’ll keep that in mind for their birthday, maybe. Hopefully by then you’ll have learned how to make something halfway decent, not just something they’ll appreciate the sentiment behind and laugh at you about.)

Chara knits in front of you for several days, apparently unconcerned by the possibility of you having put together that they’re making you a sweater. But as the project comes together more and more, they eventually retire to their bedroom, stripping you of the small pleasure of watching as they work. When that time comes, you’re no longer able to passively observe and contemplate your own gift; instead, you’re forced to actually sit down and _think._

You’re not very good at thinking, unfortunately. Thinking inevitably turn into worrying, and once the worrying begins, baking always follows.

Another day, not long after the incident with the measuring tape, you’re on your second batch of worry-cookies when Chara enters the kitchen in search of some refreshment. They raise their eyebrows upon seeing you and you do your best to meet their stare unflinchingly. You only half-succeed, and settle for offering them a spice cookie to try instead.

“Not chocolate, but tasty all the same,” they declare as they lick crumbs from their fingers. “Also somewhat alarming. You feeling okay there, champ?”

“Fine!” you answer in the brightest voice that you can manage. Chara lifts their eyebrows even higher, something that you hadn’t even thought was possible, and you add, _“Mostly_ fine. Don’t worry about me. Frisk is here to make sure I don’t get distracted and burn the house down.”

From the counter where they’re chewing on a wooden spoon, Frisk waves.

“Oh, _I_ see how it is,” Chara says, tone turning acidic despite their smile. “Frisk is your new baking assistant, are they? You don’t need _me_ anymore.”

“You’re busy! And It’s not like you’ve ever been particularly helpful,” you shoot back. Your tone matches theirs almost perfectly, but there’s no antagonism in it whatsoever. Instead, there’s just the slightest thrill of almost-giddiness at having been granted the opportunity to be a little nasty. 

“Admit it, you _like_ my brand of help,” Chara retorts, and then the two of you are smiling dopily at one another until Frisk pipes up to say “Gross”, tugging you back into reality.

Chara leaves not long afterwards, taking with them a mug of tea, and you turn to Frisk and say, “I think they’re making me a sweater.”

Frisk looks thoughtful, but says nothing.

“So, you know…my present to them needs to be special,” you continue as you set the timer on the oven. You’re babbling, you know. You always babble, especially with Frisk. You can’t help but feel as though the silence they bring with them is there for you to fill, but luckily, they don’t seem to mind your nervous chatter, simply listening as they continue gnawing on the spoon. “They’re making something, so I should make something too. Right? But I’m no good at making things.”

It’s Frisk’s turn, then, to raise their eyebrows and stare at you like you’re an idiot. It’s a silent but admittedly impressive impression of Chara.

They point meaningfully at the star-shaped spice cookies currently cooling on the countertop beside them.

“Cookies aren’t that special,” you begin, but then Frisk gives you another _look_ and you catch sight of the box of golden flower tea that Chara left out on the countertop, and suddenly, you have an idea.

As Rachmaninoff blares from Chara’s bedroom on the second floor, you feel so pleased with yourself that you’re almost on the verge of dancing along, despite Chara having told you and Frisk repeatedly that it’s not the sort of music that you dance to. But you can’t keep yourself from bouncing, and Frisk doesn’t seem to care about propriety at all. in fact, they’re off the counter in an instant, and then they’re twirling through the kitchen with their skirts and apron flaring as you start digging through the cupboards for the ingredients you’ll need.

You tell your mother not long afterwards that you need to go to the store. It turns out that Chara needs to go as well, and so the two of you end up bundled in the car together as she drives you to the local mall. There’s something almost thrilling about that part; Chara doesn’t know why you’re going, after all—although they can probably guess, judging from the way you’re squirming in excitement the entire trip.

Your mother sets you loose only once you promise never to leave each other’s sight, and then you and Chara are free to scurry off together to the craft store.

The store is bright. The lights are fluorescent and hurt your eyes almost more than the sun reflecting off the snow outside does. Everywhere, there is a low, persistent hum; the sound of the lighting, you suppose. There are people, too; crowds of shoppers and sales personnel in uniforms with plastic smiles, a regular bacchanalia of cheer and holiday shopping. It’s exactly the kind of store that Chara hates, but they hold your hand in a vice-like grip and drag you through the crowds with them until finally you reach the yarn display. Only then does it seem like they can breathe.

There are fewer customer at the yarn, mostly soft-looking older humans with greying hair and small lace shawls. The yarn itself is everywhere, with cubbies of it taking up almost an entire wall. Chara sighs in happiness as they run their hand over the of wool, while you yourself admire just how many different kinds of wool there _are;_ mohair, alpaca, merino, and more.

They take their time, and you don’t rush them. The peace they seem to feel is worth a little boredom.

Chara finally leaves with three bags full of blue and white and brown, humming a song that you don’t know, and together, you head towards the grocery store.

They don’t know why you’re going _there_ of all places, but you tell them that you’re running errands for Toriel. Which is true, in a way—you pick up coffee and salt and baking power, as well as your own butter and powdered sugar. You even toss a bag of spinach into the cart to try and throw Chara off, although you’re not sure what you’ll do with it. Maybe you’ll have to eat it. You shudder at the thought, but it’s a sacrifice you’re willing to make,

You only end up with one shopping bag yourself. As you’re returning to the car, you try and tell Chara to give you one of theirs to make it even, but they instead move all three bags to one arm and use their free hand to grab your own.

“It’s icy,” they say by way of explanation as you step out into parking lot. “You have to support me or I’ll slip and fall and crack my head open and die.”

You’re struck with the brief, horrific mental image of a human skull smashing like an egg, to which your response is to frown and tighten your grip on Chara’s hand. Chara smiles at that. “You won’t let me fall,” they say confidently. “And my head is made of iron anyway. Do you remember the first time we went to Snowdin together?”

“Um—I think so?”

You absolutely do. Nobody had thought to warn Chara of just how slippery the snowfields could be, and they’d gone sliding straight into a snow drift the moment they’d first stepped onto the ice. Once you’d helped them back up, they’d accused you of playing a trick on them, but once appeased that you simply hadn't been thinking, they’d ordered you to not let go so that they could go skating. You’d wound up guiding them throughout the field as your parents saw to business in Snowdin Town; they’d clung to your arms for support, face red with cold and laughter, and...and it’s a nice memory.

“Yeah,” you say at last. “I do. I definitely remember.”

“Huh?” Chara asks. Their face is blank. “Oh. You took so long to answer that I forgot I even said anything.”

You attempt to tug your hand away with a scowl after that, but Chara only snickers and holds on even tighter, so tightly that it almost hurts. But not in a bad way—not when the tightness means you’re there and real and that they’re holding on as tightly as you do to them.

That night, while Chara is once again knitting in their bedroom, blasting classical music the way someone else might blast death metal and causing the walls of the house to shake, you and Frisk are busy in the kitchen. They agreed to help in exchange for a share of the results, which you agree to happily—your hands are too large and clumsy for work as delicate as this, and you appreciate the lending of their skilful fingers.

The evening passes with the two of you boiling cream and butter, coating chocolate molds, chilling ganache in the fridge, and finally piping decorations onto the finished chocolates. Soon, you’re able to place them into their individual wrappers, and then into their box, and then finally, finally, you’re able to put your gift for Chara underneath the tree still standing in the yard.

It’s early in the evening still, but night has already begun to creep over the town, painting everything the blue of twilight. The lights that decorate the tree all shine like stars, as do the candles in the window, and standing there, looking over the huge pile of gifts, each bearing the name of a different monster—and Chara and Frisk, of course—fills you with something very warm and bright.

Presents or no, it’s good to be able to feel this kind of thing again, you think.

You’re humming as you run back into the house,

“I saw you putting something under the tree,” Chara says as you shrug off your winter coat. There’s a gleam in their eyes, but they continue calmly peeling their orange at the living room table as though just making conversation.

 _“Did_ you?” you say, reaching for the loftiest tone you can manage. They snort. From her rocking chair, your mother chuckles.

You’re not used to keeping secrets from Chara, pleasant ones or otherwise. Normally you tell them everything—even when you _try_ to keep a secret, you always wind up caving to their silent pressure. But there’s room for you to have secrets now, and you find that it’s easier to keep them than you would have first thought. A gift isn’t the sort of secret that burrows into corners and casts shadows upon everything, at any rate. Instead, it settles comfortably in the between-spaces, until at last, the final day of Gyftrot Month, Gyftmas day itself, arrives.

Everybody knows the Gyftrot story, the one about the nasty teenagers. But somewhere along the way, it became a time for celebrating growth and reaching out to one another in the face of adversity and a world that isn’t always kind. (At least, that’s what your mother’s always told you.) Either way, the final day of Gyftrot Month is one that’s spent surrounded by monsters, friends and family and strangers alike, all eating and drinking and sharing jokes and stories while you and the other not-quite-children linger on the edges—half-listening to the grown-ups, half waiting for the evening so you can finally go undecorate the tree.

The lamps lining the streets have painted the night golden by the time you finally run out yelling into the yard. Snowflakes drift on by, huge and thick and soft, like cotton balls or tiny clouds. The sight of the glittering tree standing amidst the drifting snow is almost breathtakingly magical, and you absolutely cannot wait to wreck that thing.

You and Chara howl as you tear the lights and ornaments down, tossing them carelessly into the snow while the grown-ups watch and smile on indulgently. Frisk works a bit more carefully, gently pulling off the ornaments and patting them lightly into the snow, as though tucking every orb neatly into the drift. Despite your eagerness to get to the presents, you suppose you can forgive them; it’s only their second Gyftrot Month, after all, and they probably don’t really get it yet. It’s fine—you and Chara can teach them.

Not at the moment, though. Because once the final plastic globe covered in googly eyes has been plucked off of branches, your mother clasps her hands together and says, “Now that Gyftrot has been undecorated, we may open the gifts.”

In your imagination, you and the other kids descend in that moment like vultures. In reality, your father steps in to pass the presents out the way he always has, one by one and with a smile for every person that he presents a box to, including those strangers who joined the celebration off the streets and were given one of the unmarked boxes accordingly. That helps you calm down a bit, although you’re still rocking on your heels with excitement. Beside you, Frisk is still, which makes you feel a little bad in comparison, but Chara’s practically vibrating on your other side, which makes you feel a bit better about your own barely-suppressed excitement.

People laugh and cry and coo over their gifts, and you’re enveloped in hugs in-between opening your own. The hugs are of the smothering, spine-crushing sort, which you return gladly, because your parents gave you your own pair of binoculars and Frisk gave you a set of mixing spoons, despite you having explained at least a thousand times that they weren’t a teenager yet and had no obligation to give anybody presents.

By the time the others have begun to file either back into the house or back into the streets and you’re left staring at the sky through your binoculars, trying to pretend that you can see the stars despite the cloud cover, you feel someone tapping your shoulder.

You turn around, and there is Chara hiding in the folds of their new scarf, holding out a long, flat box.

“Oh,” you say, and you feel stupid, suddenly. You’d been worrying about them all this time, only to forget when the day itself finally came.

You reach out for the box, but Chara snatches it back at the last minute. “I wanna see what you got _me,”_ they say, and although the scarf is hiding their smile, you imagine it’s a toothy one. “We’ll open them at the same time.”

Your cheeks grow hot; you guess that’s fair. And so you kneel and rummage through the snow for the small box addressed to Chara, which you hand to them with the warning, “It’s not actually that great.”

“I’m excited,” Chara replies as they take the gift from you, and they hand you the flat box in exchange.

You briefly debate trying to open your gift as prettily as Chara always opens theirs, but before you can come to a decision, your claws are out and you’re shredding the paper to bits.

Across from you, Chara inhales sharply. From excitement, you hope. For a moment, you forget the box that you’re still holding and say, “I, um, made them myself!”

“You made _chocolates?”_ Chara asks, picking one out of the box. Their expression is oddly blank, which you take to be a good sign—they were surprised, and so couldn’t put on one of their smug or disapproving looks instead.

You nod, nervous, and they pop the chocolate that they’re holding into their mouth.

Their face is blank a moment longer, but then their expression changes, just like you knew it would, and they say, “There’s tea in these!”

“Yeah!” you say, nodding. You almost crush the flat box they had handed you to your chest in your excitement. “It has that golden flower tea you like! And I, I made it myself, too! I thought it would be different—something better than just normal chocolate! I mean, it’s not something you can get in the store, so…oh, whoa, you probably shouldn’t eat them all at once.”

Chara’s cheeks are stuffed like a chipmunk’s. They glare at you over the box, and with some effort, swallow and replace the lid before tucking the box into their coat.

“I’ll save the rest for later,” they say stiffly, once again shoving their face into their scarf. “You can make me more to make up for those I ate. Now open _your_ gift.”

“Oh. Right.” Your gaze falls to the box, and at last, you remove the lid.

You stare.

As you’re staring, you feel Chara sidle up to you.

You turn to them, and with a beatific smile on their face, they ask, “Do you like it?”

For a moment, you think words might have failed you. But at last you find your voice.

 “I…love it,” you lie.

You’re looking at the single most offensive piece of clothing that you’ve ever laid eyes upon in your entire life, and you were there when Frisk chose their outfit for Alphys and Undyne’s wedding.

It’s a nightmare in merino wool—dark blue and white with huge, tacky snowflakes and what appears to be gingerbread cookies dancing on the collar and hem. But that’s not the worst part: the worst part is how, as you slowly remove it from the box, the sweater unrolls nearly to your knees, and there, right there on the chest, in enormous, messy white stitches, are the words _Mr. Prince Boy._

“Don’t lie, now,” Chara says, slinging their arm around your shoulders. You yelp and almost drop the box as they press their cold cheek firmly against yours. “It’s hideous. The single ugliest sweater you’ve ever owned. I think one of the few good human winter holiday traditions is that of the ugly sweater, so I decided to share it with you. And see, the beauty of it is, it’s _enormous._ You’ll be able to wear it for years to come, whether you like it or not, and I fully expect to see you in it every single Gyftrot Month we spend together.”

They’re talking quickly, almost giddily, a rush of words spilling forth, as though they’re in a hurry to get them out lest they somehow be cut off entirely.

It’s only as you gradually begin to adjust to the sight of the sweater that the meaning of their words sink in.  

“How many will that be?” you ask, and the rush stops.

“All of them,” Chara says at last. Their voice is clipped, and they’re still standing with their arm around your shoulders, cheek pressed up against your cheek as they stare at the sweater with a funny expression on their face.

You look it over once more, and you slowly begin to find that it’s perhaps not quite as ugly as you first thought. Startling, sure, but…

That _perhaps_ changes to a _definitely_ when Chara adds, “I made one for myself that matches. It’s inside, though.”

“Let’s go,” you say immediately. “Let’s go inside right now.”

Chara hooks their arm together with yours, grinning, and together, you begin to run back up the lawn, feet kicking up clouds of white as you scamper over snow drifts.

“Don’t worry,” they say as you climb the steps leading to the front door. The porch light is on now, and you can see for the first time just how dusted with snow Chara has become. “I’ll be sure to make you other sweaters. Better ones, that you won’t be ashamed to wear in public. It’s just tradition in this family for the first sweater-present to be something terrible. Remember the one I made for Asgore?”

“Is that really a tradition?” you ask, doubtful, and as they reach for the doorknob, Chara grins and answers, “It is now.”

You could say something about that not being how traditions work. But Chara’s smiling as they hold the door, looking genuinely pleased rather than just smug, and the thought of wearing something made by them—no matter how tacky—fills you with an embarrassing amount of pleasure. And you guess that some traditions have already been altered anyway, probably, by virtue of you being _you,_ and _here_ , and existing underneath the impossibly vast sky that had for years been hidden from your kind, and…

And that’s probably okay, then, that Chara has picked this one silly element of your shared histories and gone _this one, we’ll keep._

So you smile back, and together, you and Chara cross the threshold into the home where your family is waiting for you.


End file.
